


Nothing Else to Give

by theparanoidandroid



Category: Castle Rock (TV)
Genre: Afterlife, Aftermath of Violence, And So Does Warden Lacy, Angel/Human Relationships, Biblical Reinterpretation, Canon Compliant, Dennis is Dead, Dorks in Love, Gen, God Bless Rarepairs, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Implied Sexual Content, Internalized Homophobia, Lawful Evil/Lawful Good, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Castle Rock Massacre, Post-Episode: s01e04 The Box, Shawshank Sucks ™, The Kid | The Angel is the Archangel Gabriel, These Two Deserved Better™, Zakidski Is The Name Of The Game, but very loved, i will go down with this headcanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:02:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21595024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theparanoidandroid/pseuds/theparanoidandroid
Summary: Time's gone inside outTime gets distorted whenThere's intense gravityI don't got time for holy rollersThough they wash my feetAnd I won't be their soldier"Inside Out" - Spoon- or -Dennis is dead, but he has Someone waiting for him on the other side.
Relationships: The Kid | Shawshank Prisoner | The Angel/Dennis Zalewski, The Kid | Shawshank Prisoner/Dennis Zalewski
Comments: 7
Kudos: 25





	Nothing Else to Give

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Devil or Not](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16032686) by [Ayes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayes/pseuds/Ayes). 



> Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.
> 
> This oneshot is partly in homage to Ayes, who wrote a drabble called Devil Or Not that inspired the way I wrote Dennis' character, so if you need a little bit of context, go check out their work. Otherwise, all you need to know is: Dennis has had some _feelings_ for (1) angelic Kid. Also, homophobic families suck, and Dennis knows that best.
> 
> Also partly in homage to all of the others who've kept The Kid/Dennis tag alive. You all have been feeding my addiction.
> 
> Context for the headcanon I've come up with for this: my family and I watch CR together, and after being thrown for an absolute _loop_ by Episode 7 of Season 2, we came up with the "The Angel is the Archangel Gabriel" theory-- He's the Angel of Death, he's come to destroy Jerusalem ('Salem's Lot), etc etc. I hope you like the idea, and I wonder if it'll catch on.
> 
> Some parts of this I'm not entirely happy with (I've not written anything particularly intimate before, even in a vague style), and I've been playing with my writing style for a while, so this oneshot is serving as a sort of... experiment. Please bear with me if it's a little choppy at times. If I feel like it needs some work in the future, I may do some brushing up.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this! Please don't hesitate to leave praise or feedback or comments of any kind if you so wish.
> 
> (P.S. Title and summary are from Spoon's song "Inside Out.")
> 
> (P.P.S. Do these two have a shipname? We've been saying "Zakidski." I saw someone suggest Gingerbread. Thoughts?)

He should be clocking out.

He should be ending his shift and passing it off to his coworker. He should be letting security check his ID on his way out. He should be in his car, driving home from work. He should be returning to his house, his family, and his dinner. That’s what he should be doing.

Instead, though, he’s stalking through the east wing of Shawshank, issued pistol in hand, gunning down fellow corrections officers and interns alike. He’s vaguely aware that he’s heading in the direction of Warden T Porter’s office, and he’s also aware that he plans to kill her, too.

He knows she likely won’t be there when he gets there.

He also knows he’s likely not going to make it out of this alive. 

But he keeps walking.

The smell of the prison is a strange mingling of sweat and iron; the smell of death. The usually blinding lights seem dim to him now, and every sound is muffled and distant. He feels deaf and numb, and his legs move forward of their own accord. He charges past the bodies of officers-- some work buddies, some acquaintances, some nobody in particular. Some part of him, a rational part of him, thinks he should feel guilty, seeing some of those faces frozen in shock and in pain. But he doesn’t.

His brain whispers their names to him as he passes their bodies. Some are familiar, others he’s heard only brought up in conversation. But they all seem to recognize him; their faces light up in realization and twist into an expression of betrayal as they collapse.

He despises it, that look of hurt. _Don’t look at me like that,_ he thinks. _I was never one of you._

When they are all running from him, he follows. He feels oddly spry and nimble, giving chase up flights of stairs, his heart pounding but his energy plentiful. He recognizes this route; he and Boyd took it up to the new warden’s office the day of her inauguration. The hallways are not winding, but long and sharp. He quickens his pace and makes for the warden’s wing, his hold on the pistol grip tight and vigilant.

The doors are all open. He flies through them, an unstoppable force. _This is what freedom feels like,_ he thinks, and smiles without humor. In a town like Castle Rock, freedom was cold-blooded murder.

(the jury the jury needs to see)

There’s Boyd, up ahead. His closest work buddy, or his closest friend, even. When Dennis found the young man in the cage, Boyd had been there. He was a married man, divorced three times in his thirty-one years. Until now, Dennis has held him in a sort of tolerant regard, but now, his stomach twists with burning disgust.

As he raises his gun, Boyd jiggles the lock open and falls through the door to the warden’s office. He opens his mouth to address someone on the inside, but he doesn’t get to finish what he wants to say. Dennis fires, and Boyd crumples helplessly to the ground.

(my friend o my friend my only friend is dead)

Dennis comes up behind and stares down at his friend’s face, paralyzed in terror. For once his heart jerks, but the feeling doesn’t last long. He looks up into the interior of the warden’s office, dusty with an orangey glow, and a horrified Henry Deaver looks back at him.

They stare at one another for an eternity: Dennis with his pistol out, and Henry pressed up against the warden’s unoccupied desk.

Dennis swallows. His heartbeat catches up to him, and his chest heaves. 

“I wanna testify,” he manages.

Something clatters to the floor by his feet. He glances down at it and barely has time to register what it is: a dull, grey, cylindrical shape.

(a flashbang)

Dennis opens his mouth to scream.

(a FLASHBANG)

A wash of blinding white, and then sullen dark, and Dennis Zalewski sees no more. 

(ouch)

He breathes in. 

He’s falling through nothingness. His breathing is slowed and his pounding migraine at ease. He’s not quite sure how he knows he’s falling -- he feels no air rushing by his head and his stomach feels fine -- but then he feels a wave of calm crash over him, and he simply stops wondering.

Wherever he is, the darkness reassures him, he’s safe.

And suddenly Dennis opens his eyes.

The sun is shining on the beach of Castle Lake. The pale sand cascades out in waves from beneath his work boots, and at the edge of the beach the water crashes against the rocks, jagged and spiky and ancient. The trees whistle around him in the breeze, and every so often, a bird, nestled in the branches, will chirp. The sky is vast, beautiful, and blue with wispy cirrus clouds, so unlike the ugly, moody, stormy grey Dennis is used to. All of Castle Lake seems to glow underneath the warm and comforting sun, and its peacefulness wraps Dennis in a welcoming embrace.

At the edge of the embankment, a tall, hooded figure stands facing the lake. Its cloak, long and made of deep chocolate velvet, dances in the gentle wind. The fabric of the hood rustles as the face inside turns to peer at Dennis from across the beach, and from a distance he can just barely make out a pair of sky blue eyes.

Entranced, he approaches, his boots dragging in the white sand and scuffing on shells. He remembers the beach of Castle Lake and the lake itself being riddled with litter and trash, but now it seems as though the whole place is spotless. Dennis gives the lake another awed once-over as he approaches the figure on the rocks.

He stops half a dozen yards away, and waves.

Then, as if in acknowledgement, the hooded figure peels back its hood, and Dennis feels quite suddenly like the breath has been punched from his lungs.

The face in the hood is the face of the kid in the cage, only something is different. His face, while still chiseled and long and full of dramatic angles, is no longer depressed nor frightened. There is still something tragic about his expression, but no longer does it hurt Dennis in the way it used to. His cheeks are gaunt, but not unhealthily so; his eyes, still their beautiful pale blue, are not deep and sunken in their sockets, but fresh and sparkling; his soft, chocolate hair is parted neatly; his frame is thin, but strong, and just a touch of a smile plays off his lips-- not a deep, sorrowful frown. 

He is beautiful, and as Dennis takes it in, he realizes this is the way he had wanted to see The Kid-- not behind bars, but surrounded by the outside world. Not lonely and sad, but free and healthy and glowing.

(it’s him)

As Dennis gawks, The Angel’s lips turn up in a real, full smile, and when He speaks it’s the first time Dennis has heard Him speak confidently and freely.

(it’s him)

“Dennis,” The Angel smiles.

(he’s beautiful)

“Oh my God,” murmurs Dennis, his voice hoarse. “It’s you. I mean, it’s really _you.”_

“Yes.” The Angel confirms.

“You’re-- you’re _here._ I mean, not in a cell or anything,” Dennis gasps, rooted to the spot. “You’re really _here.”_

The Angel tilts His head, and the look on His face is one of patient amusement. “Some birds can’t be caged,” He says, wistfully. Again, His eyes, narrowed, meet Dennis’, and Dennis feels as though he’s gone entirely transparent. “You’ve got blood on you.” Then, “You’re hurt.”

Dennis' stomach does a somersault. He looks down at his work shirt and sees the blood seeping through the front. Not just the blood of his dead colleagues, but his own blood, oozing from a wound that had gone straight through the back of him. Suddenly, his chest aches, and the events leading up to this strange, magical utopia come flooding back in.

Shocked, he stumbles backward a pace, and manages to catch his footing before he can go toppling backward onto the sand.

(murderer)

Lamely, he looks up at the hooded man in disbelief.

“I-- I killed--” The Angel studies him carefully, and he feels naked. He sighs, “I did some bad things.” He swallows nervously. “What’s happening? Are you okay? How did you get out of the hole?”

The Angel smiles sympathetically. He offers Dennis a hand, and when he takes it, He pulls him up onto the rocks beside Him.

“Sit with me,” He says, and lowers Himself to the rocky surface. “The lake will help you.”

“The lake?” Dennis glances doubtfully at the water.

The Angel’s eyes gaze up into his, and they are the eyes of someone who has seen more than Dennis can ever hope to. “Do you trust me, Dennis?”

Dennis gazes back at Him, into His eyes, and finds that he does.

He kneels beside The Angel and slips into the water, his grip tight on the rocks. The water is frigid, yet calming, and as Dennis submerges himself he feels a chill run through him. The sensation seeps into his chest and soothes his pain -- both the angry throbbing of his wound and the warzone of his mind -- and when Dennis eases back against the rocks, he is stunned to discover his clothes are completely dry. The feeling of the cool water, he reflects, is like coming in from the snow to toast in front of the fireplace, or coming home after a late night to peace, quiet, and a good night’s rest.

When he raises his head, amazed, to look up at The Angel, he finds Him smiling back at him.

“What is this?” Dennis whispers. “Tell me.”

“I brought you here,” says The Angel. “When they killed you.”

(what)

Dennis stares. The Angel stares back.

“I’m dead,” utters Dennis, and it is not a question. “They killed me.”

The knowledge lingers in the air for a lifetime. The water laps idly at Dennis’ legs. The birds sing in the branches, oblivious to what is going on beneath them. The trees bordering the lake sway dreamily. The world around Dennis and the beautiful angel goes on, despite their silence, and Dennis is grateful. 

He looks up at The Angel, who readily meets his gaze. He says, “I have questions.”

Gently, He nods His head at Dennis. “I have answers,” He replies, and stands, the velvet of His cloak whispering. 

“Come,” He demands, and Dennis rises to join Him. “Walk with me.”

They walk together along the beach. The Angel appears calm and carefree as they go, and the length of His cloak makes it seem as though He is gliding effortlessly across the sand.

“What’s your name?” Dennis asks Him after a while, the theories in his head coming to a boil, and beside him, The Angel frowns softly. Dennis suggests instead, “Who are you?”

There is a pause, as The Angel seems to think over His choice of words. After a moment’s pondering, He answers Dennis’ question, and His voice is gentle and soft in a way that makes every word seem good and true.

(he is beautiful)

“I am the one who told Mary the Good News,” He says. “I helped Daniel understand his vision, though he was afraid of me, and I was once sent to the city of Jerusalem, seeking destruction.” He smiles, and this one is not pure, but bitter and almost a grimace. “I found it.”

Dennis turns his head and blinks incredulously. “What?”

Amused, The Angel laughs (a beautiful sound), but it is not patronizing. “You were raised in Castle Rock, Dennis, a place dominated by Catholicism,” He says. “Surely you remember the stories of the Lord’s Word?”

“No, I do,” Dennis assures. “But-- but you-- you mean you’re an _angel?_ An _archangel?”_

“Not just an archangel, Dennis,” quips The Angel. _”The_ Archangel.” 

Feeling quite out of his depth, Dennis shakes his head in disbelief. He has long since given up religion. It has been years since he’s attended Mass. He most certainly doesn’t believe in angels, and he is damned if he’s going to start now.

But it is awfully difficult not to when someone with access to a magical healing lake is looking you in the eye to tell you they are one, after kindly informing you of your status as an _ex-person_ moments before. 

The Angel’s -- Gabriel’s? -- voice draws him back to reality (or, at least, whatever version of it they are in now). 

“You have doubts,” He says. “You don’t know what to believe. Am I right?”

“Something like that, yeah.” Dennis mumbles. He rubs at his eyes with his hands and for a moment considers pinching himself. “You really claim to be an archangel?”

“I claim nothing,” replies The Angel. “What you choose to believe is up to you.”

They reach the cliffside of Castle Lake, and The Angel, noticing his expression, takes Dennis’ hand and guides him to the rocky embankment to sit. They sit and let their legs dangle over the edge, high above the dark -- and apparently magical -- waters.

“Why did you bring me here?” Dennis asks Him, as they settle. He notices The Angel has not let go of his hand, and leaves it be. His grip is strong, but gentle and kind, and Dennis feels comforted by it. “And if I’m dead, and you’re really an angel, is this Heaven, or is it Hell?”

“This is neither.” The Angel tells him. “This is where I live. This place is my home and my prison. It’s where my essence stays forever.”

“Essence?”

“While I am here with you, I am also out there with them,” He explains. “With your people, in your home.”

Dennis furrows his brow. Faintly, he says, “Your cell.”

“Yes.”

He looks at The Angel, eyes wide. “You’re in a prison no matter where you are.”

The Angel smiles again, and it is not an entirely happy smile. He looks vacantly out at the vastness of the lake, both admiring its beauty and resenting it at once.

“You asked me why I brought you here, Dennis,” He says.

“Yeah?”

“You are different from the people in your town. I think you will agree with me when I say that they hate that which they do not understand. When they are afraid, they are cruel. What they fear, they are inclined to hurt. Time has told me that, and much more.”

“Warden Lacy,” mumbles Dennis.

“Yes,” The Angel agrees. “And others, too. Many others. Your home, Dennis, is evil. I was sent to destroy Jerusalem, as I told you, and I was sent to destroy New Jerusalem, too.”

“You mean ‘Salem’s Lot?”

The Angel nods. “I do.”

“Then what about me?”

For a moment it seems as though The Angel is not going to answer, but after a moment’s hesitation, He speaks.

“You are not wicked like them,” says The Angel, softly. “I did not want you to suffer.”

Dennis’ blood runs cold. He tears his hand away from The Angel’s and stands abruptly. “What?”

The Angel says nothing.

“You-- you made me do what I did.”

A nod, here, as gentle as can possibly be. Dennis groans and puts his face in his hands.

“I’m a murderer,” he growls, angrily. “Because of you? I’m _dead,_ because of _you?”_

(murderer)

The Angel lowers His head in a silent bow, and Dennis scoffs, bewildered.

“Why?” he demands, his voice cracking. “Why did you-- you couldn’t have--"

(i killed my friends)

“You were kind,” says The Angel, in a hush. “You found me in the cage and demanded I be accounted for. For me to hurt you after that would be unforgivable.” 

“Murdering people is unforgivable!” Dennis cries, and this time his voice does break. A few tears escape down his cheeks, and he sucks in his teeth before they start coming in rivers down his face. Then, after a breath, he falls apart.

(i am a monster)

For a moment, Dennis stands there, crying, breaking down, and then The Angel moves.

He rises to His feet, slowly, His velvet cloak rustling. He opens His arms, an invitation, and Dennis, sobbing, surges forward. They collide; The Angel silent and thoughtful, and Dennis, falling apart quietly in His arms.

“You are beautiful,” The Angel murmurs when Dennis has gone still, and He raises a placating hand to rest on Dennis’ chest, rising and falling under His touch. “In here, you are beautiful.”

When Dennis says nothing, He goes on, “You thought of me. You were kind and good, and you thought of me. You wanted me to be happy. You wished I would talk, or smile, or let you know I was alright. Am I right?”

Dennis, pulling away to look The Angel in the face, nods. The Angel is radiant, and His pale blue eyes bore into the other’s.

(he is beautiful)

“I did not want to hurt you,” He says, seriously. “I only wanted to repay you. When you touched me, I searched for a way to do so, thinking, what would a man like yourself want from this world? And what I found…”

The Angel trails off, His arms still wrapped around Dennis but loose enough to let him pull away.

He doesn’t.

“What?” whispers Dennis, though he is prepared for The Angel’s answer. “What did you find? What did I want?”

The Angel smiles at him, sadly. “Freedom,” He says. “You wanted freedom.”

Dennis shivers. He shakes his head, his face hot with tears, and huddles closer to The Angel, who lets him do so. His forehead thumps gently against The Angel’s chest, and a thin hand comes up to rest lightly on the nape of his neck.

“I am sorry, Dennis,” mutters The Angel. “If you would like to move on from here, away from this place, such a thing can be arranged. I only wanted to see you.”

The Angel goes quiet, and Dennis thinks it over for a long moment. He wonders where he could possibly go after this, and suddenly he finds himself afraid to know. As he ponders his fate, however, he can feel a heartbeat against his cheek, and is suddenly reassured that the man before him is not an otherworldly monster. He is strange, and powerful, but trapped, and He is just as human as Dennis is.

(human like me)

“No,” Dennis mumbles and lifts his head. “I’ll stay.”

The Angel looks down at him then, His gentle face puzzled. “Why?”

“If you’re telling me the truth, then none of this is really your fault, is it?” Dennis says, hoarsely. “You gave me what I wanted, like you said. Freedom.”

“I hurt you.” The Angel appears perplexed, disbelieving.

“It’s over now,” Dennis insists. “It hurt, but it’s over.”

The Angel’s blue eyes shimmer, and His big hands retreat from around Dennis’ waist and instead find purchase around his face. 

“You are beautiful,” He repeats. “Thank you.”

Dennis smiles tightly, and The Angel lets him pull away from the embrace. He looks out over the water, breathes in the beauty of it once more, and, comforting himself, tunes in to the gentle whispering of the breeze. The birds, hidden wherever they are in the trees, continue their cheerful conversations, and the sun shines down brightly -- but not unpleasantly -- on Castle Lake.

“Gabriel,” he says, eventually, and The Angel looks up at the sound of His name, smoothing out a crease in His long velvet cloak.

“Yes?”

“You said I wanted freedom. Freedom from what?”

A soft smile graces The Angel’s features. “From your job. From people, and the standards they’ve held you to. From the small town you’ve lived in your whole life and grown tired of, from the expectations you can’t meet, and from yourself.”

Dennis lets this sink in. He repeats, doubtfully, “Myself.”

The Angel studies him curiously, and says, “Have you found your freedom, Dennis?”

He meets The Angel’s steady gaze. “I think so.”

The Angel nods once, satisfied. “I am glad.”

Again, they settle together on the cliffside, clumsily dropping to the ground to watch the gorgeous, ethereal sun slowly climb down towards the horizon. They sit close together, a demonstration of trust, their legs hanging freely over the ledge and their shoulders pressed gingerly against each other. Soon enough, the sky has gone violet, and Dennis sleepily tries to recall if he’s ever seen an evening as beautiful as this one show its face to the likes of his Castle Rock.

“Do you have an actual house?” Dennis asks The Angel, offhandedly, watching as the last embers of daylight burn out on the horizon.

“Yes,” answers The Angel. “Most of my home here has not been made into a town. However, there is one building. It’s the house on the hill, the one that separates New Jerusalem from your town.”

(what)

Startled, Dennis looks at Him. “No fucking way,” he utters. “The _Marsten House?”_

“I know about the history of the house in your world, and I’ll tell you now that my home been much less prone to murder and suicide in the past.”

“That’s reassuring.” Dennis scoffs, shakes his head. Leisurely, he reclines comfortably onto his back and yawns, gazing up at the sky. “Shit, I haven’t gone camping since elementary school. I feel ten years old again.”

The Angel chuckles and mimics Dennis’ movements, His cloak flowing out and about Him as He does so. Dennis shifts to look at Him in the low light.

(he is beautiful)

“Henry Deaver,” he says, thoughtfully. “When I got you out of the cage, you asked for Henry Deaver.”

“And you brought him to me,” agrees The Angel.

“What do you need him for?”

“In the beginning, I wasn’t sure myself,” The Angel admits. “But I believe I’m beginning to understand. He is a kind man. A good one, maybe.”

“Maybe?” Dennis arches an eyebrow. “He’s a lawyer.”

“A defense attorney.”

“You brought a serial murderer _here_ and you’re getting on the guy for being a defense attorney?” Dennis quips, and the edges of The Angel’s lips quirk up slightly. 

“You’re a good man, Dennis.” He says.

“If you say so.”

The Angel looks at him crossly. “You wanted nothing more than to see me safe. You’re understanding, even to those undeserving of it. You lived in a place like this, and still, you did not let it change you. You are truly beautiful, Dennis, believe me.”

“You say that a lot.”

“I say it because it’s true,” The Angel insists. He’s turned onto His side now, looking at Dennis in the dark, His eyes burning with ethereal intensity. “I would not have brought you here if I didn’t know it was so. You wanted my happiness, though your friends wanted nothing to do with me. You wanted to see me free.”

Dennis feels his face growing warm. Weakly, he protests, “It was unfair, what Lacy did to you. Anyone could see that.”

“Not your townspeople.” The Angel replies, doggedly. “You put yourself at risk, calling Henry Deaver, but you did it to ensure my safety. You knew nothing about me, but still, you were kind to me.” He pauses, and then, hesitantly, he says, “When you thought of me, I heard you. You were afraid-- not afraid of me, but for me. You wanted to stop it. You wanted to touch me, to love me, to make me happy."

Dennis is speechless. Bright eyes gaze into his, reading both him and his mind, his thoughts and his fantasies. He must know by now, Dennis thinks, of his thoughts in the shower, and though Dennis’ face is hot, the look on The Angel’s face is not one of judgement or disgust. If anything, it is one of understanding.

(he is beautiful)

Ever so slowly, The Angel extends a careful arm, and takes a ginger hold of Dennis’ hand. His touch is kind, eager but thoughtful. He pulls Dennis up with Him, and the archangel Gabriel’s delicate, battle-worn hands engulf Dennis’ own.

“I am yours, if you want me,” The Angel murmurs. Around them, the birds’ song has ended and the crickets’ has just begun. “Do you want me, Dennis?”

And Dennis nods, once, decisively, his heart thumping in his chest and his body on fire.

The Angel smiles, broadly, longingly, and whispers, “Then have me.”

In the darkness, they collide.

It’s good. It’s good, slow and sweet, and by the time Dennis has had Him twice, Castle Lake is engulfed entirely in black. The moon’s pallid face shines down on them, its glow more happy than sinister, and behind the veil of the trees, the crickets no longer chirp, instead leaving the two of them to bask in the early morning silence, the afterglow of sex, and each other’s company. And it is good.

They lay together on the expanse of The Angel’s velvet cloak, the color of chocolate. The Angel and the moon smile at one another, and the silver glow casts shadows on His striking face. His fingers, pale and slender, find Dennis’ in the dark, and Dennis smiles. His heart flutters in his chest, and he knows he is happy.

Stretching languidly, The Angel curls against him, laying His head to rest on Dennis’ chest and sighing deeply. Dennis’ free hand finds purchase in His soft hair, and there they lay for some time. A lifetime, maybe, or longer, but it is time well spent, they both agree.

At some point, in the dead of night, Dennis feels himself ask, “Gabriel?”

“Yes, my love?”

“Why did you want to see me again?”

The Angel lifts His head just enough to look him in the eyes. “To answer your questions,” He says. “And to thank you.”

“To thank me?”

“I owe you everything,” The Angel utters, meaningfully. “You rescued me, and you were good to me. I needed you.”

When Dennis looks at Him doubtfully, He smiles softly and continues. “I’ve been here for a long time, Dennis. This place is my prison. I have control over it, and who may enter versus who cannot. Anyone can leave, but not me. I am trapped here.”

“So why did you need me?”

The Angel sighs. He’s quiet for a while, and then He says, slowly, “Once, I thought myself good.”

“You are.”

“Let me finish.” The Angel’s eyes glitter with mirth. “I believed myself to be good. All angels are, at the moment of their creation. But I was made to destroy, you understand. When one of us rebelled, an imbalance was set upon this world. An imbalance of good and evil. I was made to destroy Jerusalem and its son. Jerusalem, and New Jerusalem, a place who dared hide its face from God. An evil place.”

“Good can’t exist without some bad, though, can it?” Dennis interjected.

Another little smile crosses The Angel’s perfect face, and this one is sad. “That’s what my brother once said,” He whispers, and Dennis thinks He sees His eyes begin to shine in the moonlight. “Things didn’t go so well for Him.”

The Angel takes a moment to sober up, and He continues.

“I am a creature of destruction,” He explains. “The keeper of the plagues, as well as Jerusalem and New Jerusalem. I am the Angel of Death, and the Prince of Fire. I was good, perhaps, but what I did to serve my purpose…” He trails off, and Dennis holds Him tight. He sucks in His breath. “I am wicked. It is in my nature. I am wicked, and forced to oversee the destruction of those who are wicked. Hence my station here, on the hill between your town and New Jerusalem.”

Dennis speaks, and feels small. “And what about me?”

The Angel smiles at him affectionately, pale blue eyes shimmering happily. “What have I told you so many times? You are beautiful. Good, and beautiful. It has been a long time since something so good has withstood the evil of this place, Dennis. Think of me as selfish, but I couldn’t resist letting something so beautiful pass on. This place has tormented me for an eternity and longer, and I wanted to see good again.”

Dennis stares at his angel for a moment, and then lets his head fall back to rest comfortably on the velvet beneath, pondering His words.

The concept of The Angel’s denial, he thinks, sounds vaguely familiar to him, and in just a few moments, Dennis relives his teenage years: his grandmother’s anger, and the closet (both literal and figurative), and the many times he cried over his own inability to just _conform._

But now he has let go of it, and moved on. Now, as he lays here in the darkness next to an angel of a man, he is certain that he has taken that fear from his childhood, and turned it into something new, something good.

Maybe, he thinks, The Angel can do the same.

Gently, he pulls The Angel closer and wraps his arms around Him, shutting his eyes.

“You’re beautiful, Gabriel,” he mumbles. “You’re not evil.”

The Angel replies, His voice shaky and quiet, “You’re certain?”

“Certain.”

So again, they fall back into silence, and everything is quiet again, and sweet. They remain there, pressed against one another, until the sun climbs back out over the treetops and the sky glows a low, orangey red, and The Angel’s slender hand touches Dennis’ cheek, gently.

He cracks open an eye. “Gabriel?”

“They’re letting me out,” The Angel whispers, and His expression is dark. “They’re letting me out of the hole, in your world.”

“Why so upset? That’s great news.”

The Angel looks pained. “I have to serve my purpose.”

Realization dawns on Dennis. He sits up, slowly, and The Angel holds him close. Dennis intertwines their fingers.

“We’ll be fine,” he assures Him. “We’ll be alright. Promise. You'll be okay, and I’ll be here.”

The Angel nods, slowly, and tries for a smile. “Yes,” He agrees. “That’s good.”

In the trees, the birds begin to chirp, announcing the sunrise. The Angel stands, and pulls Dennis up with Him.

“Your Marsten House,” He says, sobering, and His eyes glint mischievously. “Would you like to see what I’ve done with the place?”

Dennis grins. “Absolutely.”

They start off towards the hill, standing tall underneath the crest of the gorgeous morning sun, and somewhere in the world Dennis once called home, Annie and Joy Wilkes are on the road.


End file.
